Oh. I blink. Her tone is worried because Bren needs Alan Bradford. We need Alan Bradford.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The apology is so fast it feels greased. It’s only afterward that I catch myself because why should I be sorry? What’s more, why do I feel sorry? I feel like this is somehow my fault, like I’ve let her down.
I get my bag and new computer from the backseat, carefully tucking my jacket around the bag. This conversation is uncomfortable enough without explaining why I’m dragging around a CPU.
“Tell me what happened,” Bren says.
I don’t want to anymore. “Matthew and his friends were bothering someone. I intervened and they . . . Matthew.” I pause, waiting for her as hope—I just didn’t realize what it was until now—drains from me. “It’s no big deal. It was roughhousing, stupid stuff really, and it just got out of hand. They probably thought keying my car was funny.”
Our eyes meet, and for a very long time, all I can hear is my breathing.
“Why couldn’t you just get along with them?” Bren asks.
I freeze, positive I heard her wrong. “I’m sorry I . . . what?”
“Why couldn’t you just get along with them?” Bren hunches in half, arms wrapped tight around her torso. At first, I think she’s holding herself back . . . then I realize she’s just holding herself up. That’s how much I’ve disappointed her.
That’s how much I’ve failed.
Heat chases up my neck. “I can’t get along with them because they’re assholes.”
“You could have ignored them. You could have pretended you liked them.”
I recoil. “It doesn’t matter if I pretend. They don’t care. They hate me. There’s nothing I can do about it.”
Bren’s eyes go hollow. “There’s always something you can do about it, Wick. This is survival. You have to learn to play right with the right people and you better learn it now because your future will depend on it.”
Depend on them? I . . . can’t. The realization slams me in the stomach. If that’s my future then I don’t want it.
I stumble from the car, dashing upstairs and slamming my bedroom door. How can she not understand? I throw my messenger bag onto the floor and set the computer next to my desk, dropping into the chair beside it.
Is this what life is? Just letting people use you? Bren acts like it’s okay because she knows it’s happening, like she’s in control. She’s not. None of us are.
See how she was used?
I sit straight. They’re not my words, but they feel like mine. They’re crawling out of some corner I’ve always kept hidden. Until now. I pivot to face my old computer, powering it on and opening my chemistry notebook. Forget Lily and Bren. If they want to pretend bad things don’t happen, fine. Doesn’t mean I’m going to.
I flip to the page with the passwords and log in to the police department’s employee site, using Detective Thompson’s information first.
It doesn’t work. Small, red letters appear to the side of the password box saying “User already in use.” I glance at my phone. It’s almost nine at night. What are the odds Detective Thompson is working this late? He might be. I don’t know the guy personally. Maybe he’s a workaholic.
Or maybe someone else is in the system like I am.
I tap my fingers against the side of my keyboard. Whatever. I’ll try the other log-in. I enter Sheriff Denton’s info and another menu opens. I’m in. Thank God for Molly the Receptionist. The main dashboard is set for accessing closed and open cases, tickets, and court appointments. Gotta love when people are organized.
I click the Closed Case link and use the search function to type in my mom’s case number. It takes the system a beat, but the file populates with some case notes and a summary of contents for her evidence box. No video files though.
I open the Content Summary link and scan the list. Okay, here we go. In addition to witness statements, there are also “recorded interviews with victim.” No mention of how many though. I’ve received almost forty video files at this point. Could there be more?
I hit the back button and skim through the case notes. Someone named Lawrence Haralson was lead detective, and a quickie Google search reveals he’s retired and living in Alabama. Detective Sams, his partner, now works for the Atlanta PD.
Let’s see what else. . . . I scroll to the bottom of the notes, stop. Haralson and Sams weren’t the only people present during the interviews.
So was Bay.
19
My fingers . . . toes . . . face go cold. Numb. Bay knew. He was in on it. Did Carson know? Is that why he picked me to help him? I place both hands on my desk, leaving smeary prints on the wood.
Well, that explains why Bay always denied my mom’s restraining order requests. It would have taken her away from my father, away from a case that would have padded his résumé.
I almost laugh. No wonder Carson doesn’t like him—they’re the same.
Enough of that though. What am I going to do? I start to pull off my jacket and it’s the weight in the pocket that reminds me.